


Love It If We Made It

by faepixel



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Rhyiona Week 2020, fiona says some dumb shit while she's blasted off her ass and has to deal with it the next morning, just a little bit domestic too if i'm being honest, mostly fluff sprinkled with a small dash of angst but you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25099720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faepixel/pseuds/faepixel
Summary: “What’ss got you all worked up, ATLAS?” Fiona speaks suddenly, her words coming out in a slur. It’s so heavy and disjointed that he almost misses what she says. Rhys glances over his shoulder to see her with her chin tilted up towards the ceiling, hat slid down to cover the top half of her face. One eye peeks out at him from underneath, glinting against the violet glow. The lighting of the room-- the tension between the two of them that always seems to linger in between quiet moments when they’re alone together-- it reminds him of the vault.Rhys feels the corners of his mouth twitch, a laugh escaping him, and he’s looking back down at the tiled floor again. “You’d laugh.”“Mmm. I probbly would.”
Relationships: Fiona/Rhys (Borderlands)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 41





	Love It If We Made It

**Author's Note:**

> prompt for day 1 of rhyiona week 2020! 
> 
> i figured, hell, why not kill two birds with one stone, right?

_Drunk._

Fiona’s drunk. And not just a little bit tipsy. No, she’s _hammered_. 

Rhys isn’t quite accustomed to seeing her like this-- in the past when drinks were involved with group outings, it was more often than not _him_ out of everyone who couldn’t hold his alcohol. He’d seen the way she could consume unhealthy amounts of whiskey and always still manage to keep her shit together. It made him _envious._

But here she is, stumbling in his arms out of the bar, laughing, giggling. He doesn’t like the way some of the patrons are looking at her. She’s been causing a bit of a scene, to be sure. Probably safest to get her somewhere she can just sleep it off. 

“Alright, Fi. Remind me what hotel you were staying at, yeah? I can call you a cab.” The pair make their way through some sparkly doorway beads. 

“Mmm…” The Pandoran closes her eyes tight, scrunching her face with a smile. She snorts. “I can’t. Hm. I can’t remember. Heheh.”

“You can’t. Remember.” 

“Noooope.” She giggles, staring up at the ceiling. 

Rhys frowns, a heavy and sharp sigh leaving him. The two stand together in the entrance-- a little waiting area lit with a neon purple sign. It flickers. “Oookay. That’s just-- perfect.” He mutters to himself, trying to guide her into one of the chairs set against the wall. 

Fiona lands in it with a little plop, followed by the smallest of chortles. Standing next to her, Rhys pulls out his echo device, the blue light illuminating his face. “I guess you can just stay on my couch.” He concedes, looking over at her with a helpless little shrug as if he’s both asking and not asking. Not like he’s going to get much of a coherent answer right now.

The behatted woman slouches in her seat, humming and nodding. “Okaaaay.” She drawls, eyelashes fluttering sleepily. 

Rhys feels a frown form on his face. He’s not exactly sober either. Not safe enough to drive, at least. So, cab for two, he thinks. Making the call and all the arrangements, he stuffs his echo device into his coat pocket and settles down in the seat next to hers.

The silence is a bit awkward, but the distant bass coming from the bar makes it just bearable. He hunches over, gaze fixed on the ground, hands fiddling nervously by his knees. 

“What’ss got you all worked up, ATLAS?” Fiona speaks suddenly, her words coming out in a slur. It’s so heavy and disjointed that he almost misses what she says. Rhys glances over his shoulder to see her with her chin tilted up towards the ceiling, hat slid down to cover the top half of her face. One eye peeks out at him from underneath, glinting against the violet glow. The lighting of the room-- the tension between the two of them that always seems to linger in between quiet moments when they’re alone together-- it reminds him of the vault. 

Rhys feels the corners of his mouth twitch, a laugh escaping him, and he’s looking back down at the tiled floor again. “You’d laugh.”

“Mmm. I probbly would.”

“Great words of encouragement, Fi. Good to know you’re still a massive smartass when you’re inebriated.”

“Youuu love it.” She retorts.

Okay, so maybe he does, but she didn’t have to go ahead and say it like that. Scratching the side of his face idly (mostly to cover up the little blush her comment leaves on his face), he considers his next words carefully. 

“I’m just worried about you.” The admission makes his voice crack. Clearing his throat, he turns back so that his eyes meet hers, brows furrowed with a gentle and concern-filled gaze. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink that much. You didn’t even tell me why you came here. I mean, you don’t really ever tell me, I always kind of have to guess.” He waves his hand with a dry laugh, noticing the way her brow quirks as he says that.

“It’s not a problem, though. I like having you here, don’t get me wrong, I--” He cuts himself off, feeling the words lodge in his throat. He realizes he probably shouldn’t be telling her all of this while she’s blitzed to hell and back. “Maybe we can pick this conversation up again when you’re sober.” 

“I don’t… I ‘unno why I’m here.” She admits suddenly, and the way her voice shakes grips at his chest. Goddammit, he shouldn’t have said anything. He should have just waited. “Stupid fuckin’ Felix just... can’t stay out of my life. He’s gotta come back in ‘n tell me I’m running away from everything, y’know? As if _he_ wasn’t the one who ran away from Sasha ‘n me.” 

It’s probably the most coherent thing she’s said in the past ten minutes. He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again. She’s apparently not finished.

“Tells me I’m _wasting_ my _… my potential._ As if he’s got any room to talk.” She laughs, taking off her hat. She mirrors his position, moving into a little hunch. “But he’s right, I guess.”

He can _just barely_ make out her words through her mutters. It looks like she’s trying her damndest for all of this to sound comprehensible. 

“He’s _not_ right,” Rhys replies almost immediately. There’s a small air of _eagerness_ to the way he says it. Sober Fiona doesn’t tell him things like this, and he doesn’t expect her to, but… she needed a friend tonight. And he’s always more than happy to be there for her. “He’s hardly in your life. He can’t just act like he’s your family again whenever he wants to.”

She buries her face into her hands. “But I am running. It’s all he taught me. He taught me how to lie. How to run. I ‘unno anything else. And now he just… expects me to go hunt _vaults_ or whatever the hell.” 

Rhys’ hand settles on her back as a gesture of comfort. He doesn’t quite know what to say, so he hopes this suffices. 

She looks at him in silence, eyes filled with pain, and he thinks he understands exactly what she’s going through. He’s been fighting tooth and nail to get things off the ground with ATLAS. He has plans. Big plans, to help people, to make the world better. But even despite all of that, the position of power that he’s found himself in has been... choking. Sometimes he can barely find it within himself to get up in the morning. It’s imposter’s syndrome, he thinks. After everything he’d been through with Jack, what he did to all those people on Helios… Well. Let’s just say he’s not exactly too fond of himself.

They're both _stuck._

Fiona sits back up and leans on his shoulder, nose burrowing against his collarbone, and he can feel her hand grip at the fabric of his suit jacket. His face heats up, and he debates on whether or not he should push her away. Mainly because he’s not sure if this is something sober Fiona would be okay with. But he decides to just let her do her thing. _It’s just a hug._ He tells himself. _You’re just hugging her._

Rhys gives her a sympathetic pat on the back, and he thinks he’s perfectly content to sit like this for hours, arm slung around her, listening to her quiet and shallow breaths. 

“Man, I can’t even properly tell you that I wanna kiss you _._ OOPS, right? Haha.” She murmurs into his arm.

_Oh._

Rhys freezes, jaw snapping shut. His heart feels like it just dropped inside of his rib cage, and it’s beating so fast that he can feel the pulse in his fingertips thrum against her spine. 

“Like, I think I’ve been ‘n love with you for a whole year, and it’s jus’ been sittin’ there gnawing at the back of my mind.” 

Well.

Balling a fist up, he presses his robotic knuckle to his lips with a wide-eyed look. 

The silence that follows is even more uncomfortable than the time he half-assedly confessed to being _interested_ in her outside the vault. He can feel her tense up next to him, hear the way she drags her hands down her face with a trembling sigh. 

Here’s the problem. Rhys feels the same way, and he has pretty much since he first met her. But she’s brushed off every attempt he’s made to pursue her. At least, he thinks. So he just kind of … gave up? He’s always valued Fiona’s friendship over whatever stupid feelings he’d caught for her. That was _his_ burden. So where’s the issue now? He’d mulled over imaginary conversation after imaginary conversation, just _waiting_ for a moment like this, and to be honest, he truly believed it would never come. Maybe he’s just having a hard time registering the fact that this is real, and it’s happening.

Rhys’ lips tighten. “You’re drunk.” He manages. “Like, really, really drunk. You don’t mean that.” 

“Oh, fuck you. I can’t sleep at night because of you.” Fiona breathes, standing up from her seat. The chair squeaks against the tile, and he grimaces at the sound, looking up at her. 

“W-wait, come on Fiona, where are you going?” He calls.

“ _Gettin’ some air._ ” She snaps, stumbling towards the front door. For a drunk person, she sure moves fast. He springs up from his seat immediately and starts into a brisk, little jog. Stepping out into the damp, cool night, he can see her hurrying off down the street. It doesn’t snow here on Promethea, but the winters are still relatively bitter, and she’s crazy if she thinks that he’s just going to let her wander off into the streets under the influence.

“Fiona!” It’s more of a plea than it is a command. When she turns around, he can just barely make out damp tears reflecting in her eyes. He swallows the lump in his throat. _“Please wait.”_

“I didn’t wanna tell you that.” She laughs, but it’s devoid of any actual joy or humor, empty and angry. 

Rhys stands there, staring at her, watching the way her breath creates a plume of fog against the chill of the night air. She leans against a wall, gaze breaking from his, and he clears his throat. “I’m glad you did.”

Maybe it’s the temperature, or it’s the tone in his voice, but it looks like she’s changed her mind about making a break for it. Which is… a relief, needless to say. He was honestly kind of worried he was gonna have to chase her down, which would be super weird and creepy now that he thinks about it. Not that he would even be able to catch up with her anyways-- as much as Rhys hates to admit it, Fiona runs _way_ faster than he does, and he’s still kind of buzzed, so the odds are absolutely not in his favor there.

He collapses back against the same brick wall she’s made a leaning perch out of, and Rhys runs his cybernetic hand through his hair. There’s a pregnant silence, a few beats before he finally forces the words out. “I just wish you were sober so that I could say it back to you.” 

Fiona meets his gaze, staring up at him with hazy eyes. “What?”

“What do you mean _‘what’?_ ” He asks, a little breathless, defensive, and embarrassed all in one.

“Whaddya wish you could say back to me?” 

Rhys’ jaw sets, staring straight into her eyes. “That I’ve been falling in love with you this whole time.” It’s quiet. Barely audible, especially considering the roar of blood in his ears. 

With her jaw agape, Fiona blinks a couple of times before turning around to press her forehead against the brick in frustration. “We’re both idiots.” She laughs.

And this time, he laughs back. The cab driver waiting for them on the curb must think they’re crazy.

\--

When Fiona wakes up, she’s on a couch. It’s made of leather, and the way it clings to her skin makes her feel all sticky and gross. She’s under a linen blanket, wearing the same outfit she was wearing when she walked into that bar with Rhys. 

Okay, that’s a good sign, at least, even if sleeping in a short dress and a pair of tights is not exactly what she’d consider _comfortable._ Eyes examine the lofted ceiling, and it only takes a couple of seconds for her to realize she’s in Rhys’ living room.

Huh.

With a groan, Fiona tries to sit up, and boy howdy, _what a mistake that is._ Blood comes rushing to her head immediately, and with it, an onset of memories from the night before.

_Ohhhhhh no._ No, no, no. 

She doesn’t remember it very well. It’s foggy, but… she remembers spilling her guts out, that’s for sure. She remembers saying something she regrets and leaving, and then she remembers Rhys running after her. 

To be honest, she can’t recall exactly what it was she said that made her walk out like that, but Rhys’ words are clear as day in her mind. _‘That I’ve been falling in love with you this whole time.’_

Combined with the wicked hangover, the visceral pang of anxiety that it makes her feel is enough to make her want to yarf. “Fuck.” She hisses, practically jumping from the couch and grabbing her coat from the floor. 

Fiona’s just about to book it out of his house when she sees a tall figure shuffle through the doorway. His hair is all messy and he’s got a stupid, ugly t-shirt on with a graphic of a cartoonish cat typing a computer, matched with a pair of flannel pajama pants. By the looks of it, he just woke up too, eyes barely open and sagging downwards. _The sight makes her heart flutter._

When he spots her, they both just stare at each other for a couple of seconds. He studies her expression as if waiting to see whether or not she remembers the conversation they had last night. 

Fiona feels like she does a pretty good job of showing no sign of either possibility.

“Nice shirt.”

He looks down at his chest for a minute, then shakes his head and looks back up at her. “You um… You're heading out, then?” 

Her pulse leaps and she does the only thing she really knows how to do, striding towards the door. Maybe if she gets out of here fast enough, she can just pretend she never said anything and they can go back to whatever dance they were doing before. “...Yeeup. Thanks for having m--”

“Did you mean what you said last night, Fiona?”

She freezes in place. He starts talking before she can even muster up the courage to reply.

“Look, I don’t want to force you to stay, okay? I can just leave you alone if you really want. I mean, I couldn’t remember what hotel you were staying at, so I brought you here, because I thought it would be safer, and you were super drunk and I didn’t know what to do. But if you don’t want to be around me anymore, I get i--”

“Did you?” She cuts him off abruptly.

“Pardon?”

“Mean what you said.”

He quirks a brow at her. “I mean, I asked you first.” And there it is. That little stupid shit-eating smirk on his face.

Fiona rolls her eyes at him, and she cannot _believe_ she’s trying to suppress a very obvious smile right now when she’s supposed to be running off to sulk or whatever. “Yeah, I think it’s pretty evident right now that I meant it when I said all I know how to do is run off.” She makes a face, swiping her bangs away from her eye. A nervous tick. 

Rhys frowns. “Stop that. You and I both know that’s not what I meant.”

Right. He’s got her there.

“Okay, yes. I fucking meant it, Rhys. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but I know I more or less…” She waves her hands in the air violently, as if she’s trying to drag the final words out from her mouth. “More or less-- _told you that I’m in love with you._ ”

The corners of his lips twitch up, and though she can barely meet his eyes right now, Fiona can see the little glint of hope on his face. 

“Your turn.” 

The company man rubs the back of his neck, looking down at the floor. “I-I mean, yeah, I did. I-I do. Mean it. I tried to tell you that a couple of years ago, but I was… vague, and didn’t do a very good job of it.”

Fiona’s arms fold across her chest, and she smirks at him. “So that’s what you meant.”

Rhys sighs, finally stepping out into the kitchen and looking at her from across the island counter. He leans forward on his elbows. “Yes, Fi, it’s what I meant. I thought you knew, I guess, and I figured you didn’t feel the same way.”

“I do.”

“...Do you still want to leave, then?”

The question catches her off guard. With a flinch, she glances around the loft. “No. No.” She breathes out. “I think I want to stay. If that’s okay.”

He looks like he didn’t expect that answer, but the joy on his face more than makes up for it. “I… of _course_ it’s okay.”

“If only because I have a killer headache from all that shit I drank last night.” 

Rhys rolls his eyes. “Right, right, of course. I’ll make you some coffee.” He snickers and she hops up on the counter, smiling at him. A small amount of time passes. Some idle conversation, here and there. The room feels a lot _lighter,_ and when he makes his way over to her with a coffee-filled mug in hand, her fingers dawdle on his. 

“I remember saying something else last night, actually.”

Fiona’s other hand creeps onto his chest, sliding up over his shoulder and hooking around his neck. His eyes go wide, mouth forming into a thin line, and she can see the pink blooming on his face. Rhys sets the coffee down beside her with a clink as she draws him closer to her. 

“Oh?” He huffs out, now only a few inches away from her face. "You know my breath smells like shit right now, don't you?"

_"I don't care."_

She’d been waiting to do this for a long time. With just a small tug, Fiona’s kissing him, and he's kissing her back. It’s soft, and it feels like home, she thinks. His hand slides into her hair, pulling a loose strand from her face, and at that moment, Fiona realizes that maybe it’s about time that she stopped running from the things that make her happy.

  
  
  



End file.
